[Illustration: Cover]
[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic
text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
OVER THE SEAS FOR UNCLE SAM
[Illustration: "Only the hits count!"]
OVER THE SEAS FOR UNCLE SAM
BY ELAINE STERNE
_Author of "The Road of Ambition," "Sunny Jim" Stories, Etc._
"We're ready _now_!"--Navy slogan.
NEW YORK
BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1918
BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
Made in U. S. A. All rights reserved.
_To the Honorable Josephus Daniels
Secretary of the Navy,
whose devotion to the interests of the men in the
American Navy has been an inspiration to them
no less than to the nation as a whole._
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE WHEREFORE OF MY LITTLE BOOK 11
SUNK BY A SUBMARINE 21
WAR CLOUDS GATHER 35
THE STUFF HEROES ARE MADE OF 49
DEPTH BOMBS AND DESTROYERS 61
IN TRAINING 73
ZEPS AND TORPEDOES 91
"THE LEATHER NECKS" 107
THE WAY WITH THE FRENCHIES 119
A YANKEE STANDS BY 135
A TASTE OF HELL 147
THE WANDERLUST AND THE WAR 161
UNDER THE RED CROSS BANNER 175
"ABANDON SHIP!" 191
PRISONERS OF WAR 209
FRITZ GETS TAGGED 221
THE FLOWER OF FRANCE 233
THE WHEREFORE OF MY LITTLE BOOK
We have learned some things in war times that we did not know in days of
peace. We have made the amazing discovery that our own fathers and
brothers and husbands and lovers are potential heroes. We knew they were
brave and strong and eager to defend us if need be. We knew that they
went to work in the morning and returned at night just so that we might
live in comfort; but we never dreamed that the day would come when we
would see them marching off to war--a war that would take them far from
their own shores. We never dreamed that, like the knights of old, they
would ride away on a quest as holy as that of the Crusaders.
As for army and navy life--it had always been a sealed book to us, a
realm into which one was born, a heritage that passed from father to
son. We heard of life at the army post. We saw a uniform now and then,
but not until our own men donned khaki and blue did we of the outside
world learn of the traditions of the army and of the navy, which dated
back to the days of our nation's birth.
We did not know that each regiment had its own glorious story of
achievement--a story which all raw recruits were eager to live up to--a
story of undaunted fighting in the very face of death that won for it
its sobriquet.
Because the army lay at our very door, we came to know it better, to
learn its proud lesson more swiftly, but little by little the navy,
through the lips of our men, unlocked its traditions, tenderly fostered,
which had fired its new sons to go forth and fight to the finish rather
than yield an inch.
As a first lieutenant in the Girls' National Honor Guard, I was
appointed in May, 1917, for active duty in hospital relief work. It was
then that I came to know Miss Mary duBose, Chief Nurse of the United
States Naval Hospital, whose co-operation at every turn has helped this
little volume to come into being.
The boys of the navy are her children. She watches over them with the
brooding tenderness of a mother. Praise of their achievements she
receives with flashing pride. With her entire heart and soul she is
wrapped up in her work. Through her shines the spirit of the
service--the tireless devotion to duty.
I had never before been inside a naval hospital. I had a vague idea that
it would be a great machine, rather overcrowded, to be sure, in war
times, but running on oiled hinges--completely soulless.
I found instead a huge building, which, in spite of its size, breathed a
warm hominess. Its halls and wards are spotless. Through the great
windows the sun pours in on the patients, as cheery a lot of boys as you
would care to see.
There are always great clusters of flowers in the wards--bright spots of
color--there are always games spread out on the beds. There is always
the rise of young voices--laughter--calls. And moving among the patients
are the nurses--little white-clad figures with the red cross above their
heart. Some of them appear frail and flower-like, some of them very
young, but all impress one with their quiet strength and efficiency.
I have spoken to a great many of them. They are enthusiastic and eager.
They praise highly the splendid work done abroad by their sisters, but
they are serious about the work to be done here as well. Their tasks are
carried on with no flaunting of banners, but they are in active service
just the same, nursing our boys to health every hour of the day--giving
sons back to their mothers--husbands to their wives.
It is a corps to be proud of and a great volume of credit should be laid
at the feet of Mrs. Leneh Higbee, the national head of the Naval Nurse
Corps. It was Mrs. Higbee who built up the Corps--who has given her
life's work to keeping up the standard of that organization--of making
it a corps whose personnel and professional standing in efficiency
cannot be surpassed in the world to-day.
As my visits to the hospital became more frequent, I began, bit by bit,
to gather a story here and there, from the men who lay ill--stories of
unconscious heroism--deeds they had performed as part of a day's work on
the high seas.
They did not want praise for what they had done. They are an independent
lot--our sailors--proud of their branch of service. "No drafted men in
the navy," they tell you with a straightening of their shoulders.
And from the officers I learned of that deeper love--that worship of the
sea--of the vessel placed in their hands to command. From them I heard
for the first time of the value of a discipline iron-bound--rigid--a
discipline that brooks no argument. There were stories of men who had
hoped and dreamed all their lives of a certain cruise, only to find
themselves transferred to the other end of the world. Did they utter a
word of complaint? Not they! "Orders are orders"--that was enough for
them!
And because those of us who send our men to sea are burning to know the
tales they have to tell, I have made this little collection--the men's
own stories, told in the ward to other round-eyed youths who gathered
about the bed to hear, full of eager questions, prompting when the
story moved too slowly.
What you read here are their stories--stories of whole-souled youths,
with the sparkle of life in their eyes, with the love of adventure in
their hearts. Jack Tar is an American clear through to his backbone!
ELAINE STERNE.
New York,
May 15, 1918.
[Illustration: Jack is his own "chambermaid."]
JACK TAR
We're not long on recitation,
We're just rough and ready gobs,
But we rate ten gadgets higher
Than some smug civilian snobs.
When we're out on well-earned shore leave
Drummin' up a little cheer,
Oh, we meet sleek city dandies
Who object to sailors here.
They are togged in pretty shirts
Like a lady on parade,
And they wouldn't touch a sailor
With a hoe or with a spade.
We may not be ornamental
In the tinselled dancing halls,
When the nation needs defenders
We are there when duty calls.
Though we can't hob-nob with laggards
Who sleep in sheltered bed
And we can't enjoy peace pleasures,
We can join the hero dead.
CHIEF GUNNER BLAKE SPEAKS:
SUNK BY SUBMARINE
SOMEWHERE along in January, 1915, I shipped on the U. S. S. _Utah_.
Always had a hankering after the sea, and then, to tell the truth,
civilian jobs were pretty hard to land in 1915--you bet they were!
Once you're in the Navy you stay for a while. I liked it from the start.
I got to know a thing or two about the guns, went to gunnery school;
that's how I came to be made chief gunner's mate, I guess, and told to
report for armed guard duty on May 29, 1917.
I drew an old tub. I suppose it had been used to carry a cargo of salt
fish from Maine to Newfoundland, and here it was, painted fresh, and
ready to cross the old Atlantic, which was fairly bristling with mines
and lurking sea-devils.
We put to sea June 19th, and we reached the War Zone on July 3rd. I know
what I'm doing, writing War Zone with capitals. You don't have to be
told when you get there. You feel it in the air--it's like a wire
vibrating; everyone's on edge, keyed up to G pitch.
It was my job to see that all lights were doused and all ports closed as
soon as it got dark. I wasn't particular about the way I enforced orders
just so I got them obeyed--and I saw to it that every man who carried a
match was parted from it and that all pocket lights were put in a neat
little pile--officers excepted, of course. They kept theirs.
Every hour I made a round of the ship, watching out sharp for a light.
Important! Say, just suppose Fritz's sea-baby were lying off a few miles
or so without the faintest idea that a merchantman, chuck-full of
munitions, was a stone's throw away. Think how that German crew would
feel if across the darkness they saw the flare of a match. Well, it
would be apt to be lights out for us all that time--that's what.
The watch was doubled--four on and four off--a watch of good sixteen
hours at a clip, with a life preserver on every minute of the time--that
is, you were supposed to. On the transports the rule is carried out to
the letter. Catch a man without a life belt and he can be pretty sure
he'll be up for court-martial when he gets back to port.
But with us it was different. We kept them close by; some of the men
slept in them. I had mine over my feet ready to snatch up in case of
trouble.
It was July 3rd, remember, and we were feeling pretty good. My bunky was
McCaffrey--Mac for short--a little red-headed, freckled Irishman from
Wisconsin, the best that comes west of the Mississippi. We had it all
fixed up to fire a gun off on the Fourth.
"Sure, it's a fine opinion Fritz'll have of us if he's thinkin' we're
scared to let him know it's our big day back home," he argued.
I thought it was a great idea--I told him I'd stand by if he'd share the
blame. Of course we knew darned well we'd never really pull it off, but
it was good fun planning the whole thing just the same.
The sea was calm that night, for a wonder--just a gentle swell. We were
on watch at eight, all on good lookout. Orders were to stand by, and the
guns were primed, ready to shoot red hell into anything short of an
ally.
I wish we could have had a close-up of us. Faces grim, tense from
excitement, joking a bit under our breaths, wishing to Moses we could
have a smoke, betting we'd get through without sighting anything better
than our own reflection in the water.
Somehow we felt peppy. I guess it was thinking about the Fourth and what
it stood for. Seemed queer to be in mid-ocean on the night before the
Declaration of Independence was signed--yep, in the middle of a blooming
black sea, with nothing in sight but a dash of white foam against your
keel, where you cut along through a swell.
I'd just glanced at my radium watch and blessed the girl who gave it to
me. It was nine. I glanced up. Not fifty yards away was a ribbon of
white foam flung out on the water like a scarf, and, sticking straight
out, by God, was the periscope of a German submarine.
No one waited for the command, "Fire when ready. . . ."
The ship was action electrified. I never saw a crew work like that. They
fired point-blank and sent that periscope straight up to where all good
periscopes go. Ripped her clean off.
We weren't sure we'd sunk her, but we figured we had. How did we feel?
How do you think? That was celebrating the Fourth right and proper!
Mac, sweating like a horse, panting from excitement, managed to breeze
by and chuckle.
"Didn't I tell you we'd shoot one off to show 'em who's who?"
It was a great night. We were heroes. We had knocked the stuffings out
of a periscope; it stood to reason we'd sunk her.
We figured out how it happened. The submarine, when she was 'way out on
the horizon line, must have seen us coming. She had evidently made a
long detour, plotting our course and planning to arrive where she could
take good aim and fire. What happened was that we changed our course, so
that when she popped up she was plumb across our bow. Surprised! Wow! I
bet her commander, if he's alive, hasn't closed his mouth yet!
It was something like this:
[Illustration]
Well, we pretty well patted ourselves on the back, but German submarines
must travel in pairs, like rattlesnakes, or else she came back to life,
for an hour later she struck us amidships.
You know it when you're struck. Rather! The crash--the roar--the
tremendous vibration--for a full minute, as the big hulk trembles and
shudders--the hiss of water rushing into the boilers, the steam
gushing, the sudden listing, and, worst of all, the throb of the engines
silenced. . . .
You never forget that silence, felt rather than heard. It means you're a
goner for fair. Above all the orders, rapped out like the clip of a
hammer on steel--that noisy silence sounds loudest in your ears.
"Stand by your guns. . . ." Sure we did. While there was still a chance
we wanted to get a whack at that sub., but all the time I was worrying
about Mac. He was taking a watch off. Could I reach him?
". . . Get back, you damned fools. . . ."
". . . Man the life-boats!"
". . . Gee, that's a close one! Look spry or you'll wash overboard. . . ."
We didn't leave our post until the last life-boat swung clear and landed
with her crew. A couple of boats had been smashed against the side of
the ship and we heard the yells of their crew--nasty sound, that.
I forgot about my life-belt--I wanted to find Mac. I couldn't. It was
pitch black. The water was waist deep and washing over you in gigantic
waves. There was only one chance--to jump for it. I took it. I landed
near the propellers. I could hear them churning fiercely--I could feel
their suction drawing me to them. I guess I fought like a fiend. I'd
heard about the death men die drawn into that blasted hole the ship
makes when she goes down to Davy Jones.
I didn't think of home. I didn't think of my past sins. I just thought
with every ounce of my strength that if I could keep swimming for a few
seconds more I could be clear of that undertow. I made it.
All around me men were calling for help. I made out a life-boat a few
yards away and hollered to them, and just then an oar floated by.
I never was so glad to see anything in my life. I rested on it and
caught another. Two oars! Why, it was as good as a raft. I was safe--if
only I could find McCaffrey in that black hell.
I yelled his name and heard a sputter behind me.
"For God's sake, save me----"
"Can't you swim?"
"No."
"Stay where you are; I'll get you."
It was Spick, one of the oilers--a big chap, weighing a good one-ninety.
"Steady! I'm coming."
He grabbed the oar and lay across it, a dead weight. Someone else pulled
me down.
"Help!"
It was little Tucker, mess attendant, a kid of seventeen. He was all in.
I shoved them both along, and they were heavy, let me tell you. Someone
in the boat saw us and drew alongside. They lifted us in.
"Where's McCaffrey?" I asked them.
Just then I saw him. He was swimming straight for us. I let out a yell,
but it died in my throat.
Straight out of the water, not twenty yards away, rose the gray bulk of
the submarine, its greenish light casting a weird glow over that awful
scene of struggling men. Fritz's war-baby had come back to gloat over
the damage it had done.
Our captain, with his pocket light, was flashing the Morse code on the
water as he floundered about.
From the deck of the submarine the commander's voice rang out. He spoke
as good English as I do.
"What ship have I hit?"
Someone told him.
"Where is your captain?"
Silence.
"_Where is your captain?_"
Then it was that little Tucker, sitting forward, tense, leaned far out
and yelled:
"Douse yer glim, Cap, douse yer glim. . . ."
Out it went. The commander gave an order. We couldn't hear it, but we
were afraid he meant to make straight for us and cut us in two. We
pulled away, but, instead, he was wishing us the best of luck to lie
there and rot, and then they submerged--just vanished into the black
water from which they had appeared.
We waited trembling, but nothing happened. There wasn't a boat in sight.
The old hulk of our ship had gone down forever. I thought of the
Captain and of McCaffrey.
"Let's get 'em now, mates," I urged. But from the direction in which
we'd last heard them there came no sound. They weren't there. Nobody
was. So we pulled away.
It was a leaky boat and we stripped off our shirts--anything we had on
that was white, so that in case Fritz came back he could not sight us.
We needed the shirts, all right, to stuff up the holes in the boat.
Those who weren't stopping up the holes took turns bailing. We bailed
like fiends--no time to think--no time for anything but to hope a convoy
would pick us up.
Along toward dawn, at six-thirty to be exact, our own convoy sighted us.
The boys were pretty stiff from exposure, but I was all right--all right
and fighting mad--my matey had gone down.
"I'll _get_ that Kaiser," I told them. And I will, too. That's why I'm
shipping on a destroyer next. I'll get that Kaiser, see if I don't.
[Illustration: The navy's first capture--German submarine, U-58,
surrenders to destroyer "Fanning."]
CHIEF PETTY OFFICER WILSON SPEAKS:
WAR CLOUDS GATHER
THE French are a whole lot different from us--more easy-going-like. They
make their money and spend it free. I like that about them. Not like
some people I know who won't let go of a nickel once they gets a death
grip on it.
Well, say, when we was anchored at Villefranche we come to know a thing
or two about the Frenchies. Villefranche is just over the hill from
Nice--a nice jaunt of a couple of miles or so, or if you've a mind to,
you can take a little car that gets you there before you know it.
Nice is on the style of Atlantic City. If you ask me, I like Atlantic
City better, but then that's because they speak United States there.
Still Nice has a great bathing beach--you have to hand it to them--and
you get so you like them little tables set out in front of the cafés,
where they "parlez-vous" with each other and drink quarts of red ink.
We'd hike over to Nice every shore leave. Some of the crew went as far
as Monte Carlo, but not me. I was satisfied. Besides, one place was as
sporty as the other, if that was what you wanted. They was chuck-full of
what the French call the "joie de vie," which in Yankee means "plenty of
pep"--that's it.
You always felt happy there and the people was great! Didn't seem to
take nothing serious--the Frenchies don't, in peace times. The women had
a twinkle in their eye and a kind of sparkle about them, and the men
said pretty things and twirled their canes--oh, they was a cheerful lot,
all right.
Remember, all this was before the war. It was August. Hot. Still. Can't
you see it? The sea, where our boat lay at anchor, calm as glass and
blue as a turquoise. The sand along the beach, snow white.
It was a Saturday, and we had a forty-eight, which took us ashore at ten
in the morning. Didn't want to miss no time on land. The day was so fine
that we decided to foot it into town. Everything was green and growing
and smelled good. We took our time and ambled into Nice long about chow.
The minute we hit that port I knew for sure something was up.
Oh, don't think there hadn't been war talk flying about. Sure there had,
but, except for a general uneasiness, you wouldn't know nothing was
doing. The Frenchies are like that--they don't hunt trouble, but when it
comes--oh, boy! They sure are right _there_!
We seen little groups of folks standing talking together. The shop
keepers had left their shops, and joined the crowds on the street. They
was waving their hands--they are great on that--everyone speaking at
once. We come up close and listened. What we heard certainly made our
ears ring!
War! France was going to declare war on Germany! Queer how that black
cloud seemed to change the whole complexion of that little sun-soaked
town. I'd never seen the natives look like that before. There was a
little old woman who kept a fruit stand--figs and peaches and what-not.
She always had a grin for us fellows when we passed. She and her
granddaughter. The granddaughter was a pretty girl--her cheeks was as
red as the side of the peaches and she had black eyes and hair. They was
always ready to swap a "bon jour" with us--but not today. The old lady
was minding the stand alone. She looked kind of white--no smile--no wave
of her hand. She told me her granddaughter had gone to the square where
the bulletins was being posted. We beat it over.
It was about three; no, I guess it was four, before the big crowds began
to gather in the square. Up to that time there had been little groups
drifting here and there, but by four the wagons had stopped at the
corners, their drivers had climbed down from the seats and pushed their
way into the mob, and the tram-car conductors and motormen just left
their cars wherever they happened to shut off power, and shoved their
way in for a view of the bulletins.
I tell you, that little town was at fever heat! Excitement! Say, nothing
beats a Frenchie at that! I've seen a lot of things in my time, but it
certainly gave me a queer feeling in the pit of my stomach to realize
just what those bulletins meant. It kind of got you to see that little
pleasure city so dead serious all at once.
Everyone in Nice was in that crowd--rich man, poor man, beggar man,
thief. The ladies from the Riviera, in their silks and satins--the
tradespeople--the poor--all fighting for a view of the words flashed on
the boards.
Someone yelled, "Vive la France! Vive la France!" and a thousand voices
caught it up until it rose and swelled like the roar of the combers in a
storm.
We had seen Nice quiet and peaceful and pretty--we saw a different Nice
from that moment. They didn't waste no time. They began calling in the
reserves. Do you know how they done it? Why, they'd simply gather them
up as they went along the street. From buildings and shops and hotels
and huts they poured--boys for the most part--some pulling on a coat and
buttoning it as they ran, and women following them, always
women--sweethearts and mothers--looking puzzled and dazed by it all, but
never holding the boys back--not they!
I never seen fellows mustered in that quick. The streets were choked
with men--sharp orders rang out, and the blare of trumpets and rolling
of drums. Say, I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn't dreaming it!
You read about such things, but you never expect to see them with your
own two eyes!
Some few men had uniforms or parts of uniforms. Some carried old swords
their fathers had fought with before them. Some of them sang as they
marched to their barracks, arm in arm. Some broke away and ran ahead,
calling to a pal, stopping to speak with an old friend. And always,
lined up on either side of the street, was the raving, crazy mob that
cheered them, flinging up their hats and waving handkerchiefs.
Outside the cafés, at the little tables, wine was flowing like water.
One glass after another flung down with a toast to France. They didn't
stop at that. I seen a little girl spring up on a table and hold her
glass high; all the folks at nearby tables jumped to their feet,
cheering her. I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly she
straightened up and began singing the "Marseillaise." Lord! The whole
town caught up the tune--it came from everywhere. Women in open windows
above the street, leaning way out over the sills, sang it; children in
the street piped up; there wasn't no one too young or too old to join
in.
The boys marching by grinned at her as they shouted it, and she waved to
them.
At a crossing I caught sight of our little old woman. She was shelling
out all the fruit on her stand to the boys as they passed. The tears was
rolling down her cheeks, but she smiled at them just the same.
I didn't see her granddaughter until some time later; then I found her
with a fellow who was dragging on his uniform coat and talking to her at
the same time. She helped him fasten it, her eyes on his face. I never
seen anyone look so hard at a man--as if she could eat him up with her
eyes. When he left her she stood staring after him. I wormed my way in
through the crowd until I got alongside of her and I took her arm, but
she didn't seem to know I was there.
Bulletins was flashed every few minutes. No sooner would one get posted
up than they would tear it down to make room for another. Above the roar
of voices rang out the call to arms, and always from no place in
particular men and men and men came pouring, keen to get into the Big
Scrap.
You couldn't take a train if you wanted to. Everything was commandeered
for the "military," as they call it over there.
The sun went down and the street lamps began to wink at you and still
the excitement raged. Bulletins--crowds--trumpets--voices--soldiers
arriving from Monte Carlo and a new set of cheers for them. No sleep for
nobody, just moving through the packed streets listening to a snatch of
conversation here and a snatch there.
And every passenger coach and freight train jammed with soldiers on
their way to the concentration camp. Those who had any, wore the old
French uniform--you know, the red pants and blue coats--great colors,
but say, what cruel targets for Boche bullets they turned out to be!
Next day the cry went up for horses--they needed horses, and they got
them. That's the Frenchies' spirit for you. Nothing is too much to do
for their beloved country. Every farmer with a four-legged animal drove
into Nice and gave him up gladly, and what's more brought in all his
garden produce for the boys.
It was like a horse mart. I never seen so many sweating, rearing,
stamping brutes. One farmer drove in a little blind mare he'd raised
from a colt. Rummiest horse I ever seen. Wind-broke, with a coat that
looked like the moths got into it. The old man seemed pretty fond of
her, for he talked to her considerable before he parted from her. He
didn't pay no attention to the crowd looking on, only he just kept
whispering in her ear and stroking her nose. After a while he turned her
over to the officer in charge.
"I have explained to my friend that she must fight for France and she
has said in that case she is willing to go," he told them in French.
They took her, too, and he hiked back a dozen miles or so without
another word.
Once on the ship again, we laid in the harbor at Villefranche for a
week, but from the deck you could see the little seaport town and that
line of men that wound over the hill--tramping--tramping toward the
sunset--thousands of them--an endless stream.
We went to Gibralter. Just to let you know how particular them British
ships had become let me tell you that they halted us at sea one night
and made us run up our colors. They weren't taking no chances.
We laid there another week--no liberty--nothing. We knew then we was in
the War Zone. The gates were down and only the French and English
allowed in. You couldn't even coal your ship, and what was more, we were
in direct line of fire from the British guns behind us. We heaved a sigh
as we started down to Tangiers, Morocco.
Some contrast! No excitement--no faintest hint of a war. Just a dirty
Arab town with streets so narrow your shoulders graze the walls on
either side. Dirt and flies and beggars.
We was burning up for news--we went crazy tied up there a month. Then we
went home and learned what was happening. We heard about Verdun and the
Kaiser promising to make Paris by Christmas and all such rot.
Folks asked us what we thought of the war. I used to say, "If you want
to know _my_ opinion, I think the sooner we lend those Frenchies a hand
the better!" and that's just what we're doing--at last!
You get so you love them if you stay around them awhile. They're so
happy and cheerful, but when there's business to be done you can't put
nothing over on them! I won't never forget that old fellow and his blind
mare. Gee! How he did hate to part from her! But that didn't stop him
from doing it. But then that's Frenchies for you--nothing is too
much. . . !
COMMANDER WOODMAN SPEAKS:
[Illustration: "General Byng"--Friend and mascot of the U.S.S.
"Recruit."]
THE STUFF HEROES ARE MADE OF
HONOR MEDAL FOR U. S. SAILOR
FIRST AWARD GOES TO OHIO MAN WHO SAVED BALLOON PILOT
WASHINGTON, Nov. 12.--The first naval medal of honor
awarded during the present war was announced by
Secretary Daniels to-day as the reward of Dennis
O'Hara, who rescued the pilot of a kite balloon which
was struck by a squall in the submarine zone.
The balloon was being used for observation purposes by
a United States cruiser. The pilot was saved by O'Hara
from the submerged basket of the balloon.
When is a hero not a hero? Do you know, if there is any one thing this
war has proved to all of us, it is the fact that every man jack of us
has a large and totally unsuspected slice of courage tucked away within
him somewhere. We never used to think so. We used to suppose that the
ability to be brave in the face of death was a great gift granted only
to a chosen few.
Do you remember wondering how such heroes came to be born as the men of
the "Light Brigade," who rode without a quiver straight into the jaws of
hell? We read in our history books of Perry and Farragut, or we heard
the veterans of the battles of Lake Erie and Mobile Bay tell the
stirring tales. I used to suspect that these men, whose names went
ringing down the halls of time, were of different stuff somehow--a sort
of super-caliber--I never thought to see the day when the greatest deeds
of fearlessness, of self-sacrifice, would be performed on the field of
honor by the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers of this country.
Take a clerk who has toiled at his desk for ten long years. He is afraid
of death because he has time to be, but close up his books and dry his
pen and let him join the army or navy--build him up--make his white
blood red and send him on a destroyer or order him over the top--afraid
of death! not much he isn't!--too intent on launching a depth charge or
sniping a Hun to think about it.
Besides, once you get used to the idea that every minute may be your
last you don't seem to mind it. You rather relax and you don't worry;
you obey orders and stand by--and you are determined to be as game as
the next fellow when the Great Call comes.
Heroism is a large word for all this. It is just a part of the day's
work. That's what I like best about the youngsters in this war who have
done deeds of bravery that can stand up beside any acts performed in the
days gone by. They are indignant if you praise them. Yes, they are. They
tell you impatiently that what they have done anyone else would do.
Perhaps it is true. I guess so. But you have to let it go at that. They
won't stand your making much of them. Not by a long shot.
Take the case of the boy on our ship. He was a capable chap, who went
about his duties without attracting a bit of attention. Just one of
those splendid cogs in the war machine--a Chief Petty Officer, who
wasn't looking for glory or honor medals, but was just doing his job to
the best of his ability.
Our trip over had been without thrills, unless you work up one on your
own by wondering how it happens with the number of ships at sea minus a
light there are so very few collisions. That always interested me. I
remember one black night when we were shipping seas over the fo'ca'sle
that were sending sprays to the bridge. The darkness hung about us like
a velvet curtain. As far as we knew we were the one and only bark afloat
on the whole Atlantic, and yet when dawn broke, we sighted a convoy
going east. If it hadn't been for pure Yankee luck she might have been
in the same latitude as we were. Had the meeting come a few hours
earlier or our course been a trifle different the results might never
have been told.
But that is side-stepping my story, isn't it? We had an observation
balloon attached to our ship, which we flew with considerable success
during the first part of the voyage. We were nearing the point where we
expected to join the vessels sent out from France to meet us, and as the
captain wanted the balloon to be aloft that morning, she was sent up a
good bit earlier than usual.
It was a squally, rainy morning--the sort you expect in the North
Atlantic. The sea was rough, and I suppose we were making about thirteen
and a half knots. There was considerable wind on our starboard bow.
In the balloon basket was a young officer. He understood managing the
big bag, so we sent him up about a thousand feet. We passed through a
rain squall and the balloon rode that tip-top. He telephoned to the
officers below that he'd like to stay up for a while as the wind seemed
to be dropping.
About a half-hour later we entered another rain squall. It was a nipping
cold one--far colder than the first. The combination of chilled rain and
strong wind was too much for the balloon. First thing we knew the bag
had crumpled up like a crushed-in derby. And, before you could say "Jack
Robinson," down she flashed like a shot, her buoyancy gone, and the
little basket suspended about fifty feet below her, riding the crest of
the big waves like a tub.
Inside the basket, busy as the busiest bee that ever came out of a hive,
was that young officer, throwing out ballast as fast as the good Lord
and his right arm would let him.
It had the desired effect. Up rose the balloon, until it climbed to
about five hundred feet, but with its ballast gone it was like a kite
without a tail--a wild balloon at the mercy of the wind. That was a
sight you did not soon forget! All hands were on deck staring up with
bated breath--a few tried to shout advice, but the gale drowned out
their voices and the boy in the basket was far too busy hanging on for
his life to heed us.
The facts of the case were that he was virtually a prisoner, with the
ropes so twisted about the basket, as it swung on high in its fantastic
dance of death, that he could not have saved himself if he would. We
didn't get onto that at first. We rather expected to see him shoot like
a projectile through the air. It certainly seemed to us that he must be
the one exception to the law of gravitation, for by all rights he should
have been hurled earthward at least a hundred times by that careening,
dipping kite. And as it swung and lunged and turned over on itself in
wild contortions it reminded me of a mad beast tugging frantically at
its leash to be free.
There was only one chance of saving him and that chance was a small one
against the almost certain sacrifice of many lives. To stop the ship was
the one chance, but a ship with engines dead in the war zone is a
first-class target for the subs, and I can tell you that any man with
the responsibility of hundreds of lives on his shoulders is loathe to
give the order. But the sight of that pitching, rearing devil, with its
fragile cargo--one human life--was a sight no man could well resist, and
the captain finally gave the order to slow down.
We went aft. The balloon hung over our port quarter, and, as we drew it
toward the ship, we got hold of a trailing line from the nose of the
bag. The big kite came docilely enough, as though it were tired of the
game it had been playing and was sorry for the damage it had done. But
the basket, with the man inside, was in the water, half submerged and in
great danger of going down before help could possibly reach him.
Now here is where the hero part of the story comes in. It was so quietly
done that we did not know, until we saw a man flash over the side of the
ship and down one of the basket lines, that a rescue was being
attempted.
The ship still had headway and the sea was running high, neither of
which argued well for any chap trying to save a human being caught fast
in a maze of rope.
The basket was three-quarters submerged. The boy inside was played out
and could offer no help, but the C. P. O., clinging fast to his bobbing
goal, went to work with his knife and a singleness of purpose that no
mere raging sea could shake. He hacked away at the imprisoning ropes,
his teeth clenched, and at last crawled into the basket and got a
bowline under the officer's shoulders. We hoisted him aboard, and while
we were doing it, the C. P. O. clambered up to the rail, where eager
hands drew him over.
But he did not want our praise. It embarrassed him. What he wanted most
of all was to get into dry clothes and to go about his duties. Hero! He
grinned at the word. Just the same, that is what he was--a real American
boy with steady nerves and quick eye and plenty of pluck. Oh, yes, there
are lots of heroes at large these days, but they do hate like the very
dickens to have you call them that to their face.
CHIEF YEOMAN LANG SPEAKS:
DEPTH BOMBS AND DESTROYERS
EIGHT years is a long time in the service. But it pays. Yep. Even if I
never draw a commission I'll get a pension of one-third my full pay
after another eight years, and if I stay in for thirty years, all told,
I'll pull down over a hundred dollars a month for the rest of my
days--me--just a chief yeoman. Now, that's not bad, is it?
I've seen quite some service. You know about that little party at Vera
Cruz last year? I was right there in the front row. I've always been
ready for a scrap provided they gave me destroyer duty. Nothing else
goes with me. Once you get used to the feel of that rolling deck under
your feet you can't be happy on any other bark afloat!
There is nothing speedier or lighter on the high seas. She will ride the
waves like a bottle that's corked up. Not following the trough of the
swell like a man o' war, but bobbing right over the white caps or
burying her nose deep in the water as she cuts through.
. . . And spray! Say! If it wasn't for the shield around the fo'c'stle-gun,
you'd swim to Europe. As it is the combers sweep the deck in rough
weather like a young Niagara. High boots help you some, but the only way
to guarantee keeping a good man aboard is to lash him to the gun.
There is a temporary shelter for the gun crew in the pilot house, but
say, when the waves get too sassy the gunners aren't ashamed to rig up a
line which they hold on to pretty tight let me tell you, as they stand
by.
Greatest sport in the world to have an ice-cold spray breaking over your
deck. Yes, and freezing so hard you have to take a hatchet and chop it.
You never are entirely dry, and you're never sure each minute won't be
your last. But, say, you wouldn't change places with a commander on the
biggest warship afloat!
Queer, how you come to love the bobbing little devil. I guess it's human
nature. The more cantankerous a proposition is the more you like to
handle it. And salt water doesn't hurt you any. Good for you. Don't they
give you salt baths and charge you a stiff price? Well, we get the
treatment free. Pretty soft, I call it.
We had a great crew. I was chief yeoman, with a job of clerk, and in
time of action I had to work the range-finder. I was pretty busy, but I
did have time to ring in a few laughs at the ship's pet. He was a
Swede--Ole Hjalmar, and big! Say, he was eight feet high--or, anyway,
six-two, with a voice like a bull. He was mostly ears, and he had blond
hair and high cheek bones. His face was red from the high winds. It
browns mine, but it made him look like a ripe tomato.
He hated his pink cheeks. We used to guy him about them, but most of all
we made fun of the big gold rings in his ears, and say, I don't think
there was a square inch of him that wasn't tattooed--stars and pigs and
anchors and eagles all over him!
Education didn't bother him any. The only writing he did in the twenty
years' service was to sign his name to his pay checks. But he was
always ready with a laugh. He was boatswain's mate and his job was
official scrubwoman and then when an officer gave command he had to pass
the word.
I remember one day we were expecting to make port that afternoon. It was
wash-day and as we changed our course it happened that the clothes we
had hung out in the sun to dry found themselves in the shade. Our bags
were still wet, so Ole was told to pass the word to the men to shift
their clothes to the other side of the ship.
"Aye, aye, sir," boomed Ole's big bass,--then he gave the command.
"All you men who iss got clothes ver de sun isn't iss, put 'em ver de
sun iss iss. . . ."
Say, that got us! and Ole never did hear the end of "ver de sun iss
iss." That was all right, as it turned out, but next time--well, this is
what happened.
[Illustration: "Boresighting"--a 3-inch gun on board a merchant ship.]
We anchored in an English port and like every good "bloomin' bloody
Yank," as our British cousins call us, we got out our bats and balls
ready to play United States baseball. We had four cracking good teams
on the ship. The first and fourth would play, then the second and third.
The competition was pretty close and we were tickled to death when the
American Consul got a tract of land for us and we went ashore to show
those Johnnies a regular game, after watching cricket for an hour or
two.
Well, after several days of games, some of the men began abusing their
shore privileges, and the officers knocked it off and kept us aboard--no
liberty at all!
Gee, we certainly longed to get off the boat. There was land only a
hand's throw away--and there was a whole diamond going to waste and
games tied. One afternoon, after talking the matter over, we plucked up
courage and drew lots. It fell on me to go up to the Officer of the Deck
and ask for a Recreation Party.
I did.
He didn't waste any breath at all. "No," he said, so I slunk back to my
mates. But we didn't let the matter rest. Every ten minutes another one
of us would march up with the same request. The O. D. got sore. Ole was
on watch.
"Pass the word," the O. D. commanded crisply, "_No Recreation Party
whatsoever!_"
Ole did.
"_No Recreation Party what's er matter?_" he hollered.
That finished him. He lost a rank on account of it. Poor Ole, he got in
dutch for fair!
We were convoying merchant and troop ships, going out to meet them and
bringing them back to port. We started out one cold October day with a
raging gale blowing. The sea was like a seething caldron--the waves were
mountain high. We had on all the warm things we owned, but, at that, we
were ice wherever the water struck us.
I was muffled to the eyes. Esquimos had nothing on me and I could see we
were in for some stiff duty. It wasn't a matter of one day--it was a
matter of eight days on a raging sea--no chance to take off your socks
even--life-preservers on every minute of the time--watching out sharp
for Fritz.
A flock of us met the ships we were to bring in and we started to steam
back to our base, when we had the shock of our lives!
It was early morning, barely light. The sky was a gray line, as if you
took a paint brush and slapped a streak from east to west. The water was
gray and we men on the bridge rubbed our eyes, for right in front of us,
not five hundred away--standing out black against the sky--was a German
submarine.
We figured she had laid there all night--and was going to send our
flagship to the bottom if she could--but she couldn't have looked over
her shoulder, because she didn't seem to know we were there.
Well, we were after her like a streak of greased lightning. That was
just what we had been praying for; as we charged her we fired; we were
almost on top of her, trying to ram her, when she submerged; we passed
right over her as she went down; you could see the bubbles and spray.
Then we launched our depth charges--"ash cans," as we call them. They
look like a ten-gallon drum. You set them off when you are traveling
full speed right above your blooming submarine--fifteen knots we were
making.
Quick! Say, it's the speediest work in the world, because, once your
charges are dropped, you have to beat it or get blown up yourself--as it
is you can feel the explosion for yards around. Well, we dropped
four--and got out of the way. As for the sub . . . zowy! Up she came to
the surface, ripped wide open. Then she stood up on her end and sank as
if somebody had pulled her down by the tail.
One man of the German crew floated out of her before she sank for all
time, and Ole, before we could stop him, had lashed a rope around
himself and was overboard hauling him in. The German was dead, so he
couldn't give us any information. Worse luck! But we didn't let that
make us feel blue. I tell you we were a pretty pleased bunch. You feel
good all over when you get a German sub. They are so blamed much like a
crook waiting in a dark alley to stab a man in the back. Yon owe it to
society to knock him out good and proper.
Yep, great crew ours. Some say destroyer duty takes nerve, but the
reason I like it is that you don't feel like sleeping on your job;
you're just too blamed afraid you'll miss the thrill of your life if you
do. It's a great life! Take it from me!
HOSPITAL APPRENTICE DUDLEY SPEAKS:
IN TRAINING
I DIDN'T know what I wanted to enlist in--I didn't care. All I thought
about was that war was declared. That set my New England blood boiling,
I suppose, and I didn't waste any time. I happened to be in Baltimore. I
scooted down to a recruiting station and joined the Navy.
They asked me what branch of service I wanted to go in for. I said I
didn't give a hang just so long as I'd get a chance to go across and do
a thing or two to the Huns. They chose the Hospital Corps for me. It
sounded all right. I didn't dream of the hard work I was letting myself
in for.
After I'd left the station I called up mother on long distance. She was
visiting in Connecticut. I told her I had joined. She said she knew I
would and that she was glad I had not waited a day. That's mother all
over for you. I think every ancestor she ever had fought in some war or
other. No slackers in this family!
It was April. I had on an unlined suit and a light cravenette when three
hundred of us left Baltimore at eleven next day. We were going to
Newport. At five that afternoon we took the Fall River line. It was
pretty chilly then. I kept wondering why the dickens I hadn't brought
along an overcoat--but you didn't speak about being cold, although I'll
bet three-fourths of the men on that boat were chattering. We were in
the navy now--fine sailors we'd make if we complained about a chill!
We arrived in Newport between four and five in the morning, and anchored
until daybreak. I thought it would never come. The sky was grayish. I
hadn't slept all night and I was beginning to wish we'd get somewhere
where I could turn in for a good rest,--but no such luck.
A petty officer met us at the steamer pier, taking us over in a little
government boat to Coaster Island. We landed at the Government Pier and
there we lined up. There was a queer old tub anchored nearby. I asked
someone what it was, and he told me that I was gazing upon the old
frigate _Constellation_, which fought in the war of 1812 and is now used
as a signal school. She certainly looked out of date. I wondered if our
snappy sub chasers would look as clumsy as that in another hundred
years.
We marched to the receiving building and stood around on the outside. I
didn't know a soul there, but three of us were Hospital Corps, and we
sort of stuck together. The rest were a mixture. There were "sparks"
that's what they call the radio wireless men; and electricians; and
there were "chips"--that's carpenters--and there were some of the "black
gang," which are what the firemen are called, unless it's "coalheavers."
As for us, we were the "iodine crew." It's a good name, all right.
Each draft was called in in turn. A C.P.O. would come to the door and
bawl, "All right, all New York draft in," and they'd waltz in while we
waited and wondered how soon before we could sleep.
After a while they called Baltimore, and we went inside, turned over our
papers, and were sent to an adjoining room to receive the Navy hair-cut.
Say, talk about speed! Liberty motors have got nothing on those four
barbers. You no sooner sat down than--snip-snip-snip--and--"Next!" Then
you signed your name, but what the barber wanted with all our autographs
I never have been able to make out. Perhaps he figures some of us may
become great heroes and he'll sell the signatures for a young fortune
some day.
In the adjoining room we removed our clothes so that they could be
disinfected and sent home. Then we took a shower. At times the water was
very warm, then suddenly it would get cold as ice. They certainly
believed in variety being the spice of life.
We were vaccinated next, a long line of us. And some were so scared they
just curled up and fainted. But I got through and went in for my medical
exam. If you don't pass it right there you are rejected, but if you only
have depressed arches, or, say, stooping shoulders, they let you
through. They know navy life will fix that O. K. Just do setting up
exercises for a few months and you'll gain a ton!